


In the Eye of the Beholder

by Piekie



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: M/M, Model!AU, Model!Roman, Photographer!Peter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 20:49:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piekie/pseuds/Piekie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Model!AU. Roman is a model doing a big fashion show in New York, Peter is the photographer hired to capture the entire event.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This Model!AU was a prompt given to me by brucewaynesharemofdamagedboys on tumblr, who has really great ideas. I loved it, so I decided to write it.   
> First of all, sorry for all the inacurracies. I actually don't know shit about modeling/fashion world or photography.   
> This story is divided into two parts. The first part is an introduction of Roman and Peter as they would be in this AU, the second is where they meet and sex happens (because what is a Roman/Peter fic without some fucking).  
> Enjoy!

The first moments Roman Godfrey could remember about his life were built up on the same compounds. Flashes of bright light, people rushing by him, the occasional unexpected stinging sensation of a needle boring its way into his skin, the softly murmured ‘sorry, sweetheart,’ misunderstanding his gasp as one of pain rather than a surprised reaction to a pleasant feeling.   
He remembered the scent of newly manufactured fabric, slightly stiff on his skin, combined with a slight hint of sweat, and his own fear in reaction, mortified he’d mess up the clothing.   
There was his mother’s smiling face floating in front of him, her hands with the long, blood-red nails pulling his tie a little tighter around his neck. He didn’t protest at the choking feeling, just cast his eyes downwards as his mother pressed her hand in-between his shoulder blades, pressing his small, slender frame into her tall one.   
“My little emperor.”  
Her breath was warm on his ear, her perfume and breath both sweet and oddly intoxicating. Her dark hair lay on top of his dark blond strands, and he marveled at how the colors seemed to match perfectly but at the same time were polar opposites.   
“Roman?”   
His mother retreated and rose to her full frame as six-year-old Roman looked up, squinting his eyes against the bright lights of the overhead fluorescent lamps.   
“It’s time for you to go on, sweetie. Come on, I’ll take you.” The girl with the mesmerizing eyes smiled down at him encouragingly, stretching out her hand. Roman slid his small hand into hers, the rings of her fingers cool to his touch. With his fingertips he touched the metal, silver and thick, not like the rings his mother wore.   
His mother followed behind them, her heels clicking softly on the freshly cleaned linoleum floor. Even her shadow was taller than Roman’s.    
They reached the side of the stage, and this was the part that Roman always was both excited for and dreaded at the same time. He felt his heart beat, thumping against his ribcage with the speed of a hummingbird.   
The girl looked over to the other side of the stage, a man faintly illuminated in the dark nodded. That was the sign. Roman stepped up onto the stage, his mother’s hand guiding him. He felt her fingers retreat from his back as he stepped forwards and faced the crowd, hearing the soft murmurs but unable to decipher a single word that was said.   
He walked forwards, into the bright lights that seemed to welcome him home.   
  
Now, fifteen years later, Roman wasn’t nearly as amazed by the whole modeling world as he used to be. He’d seen the models backstage and knew they weren’t nearly as good-looking as they were on a runway, the flashes irritated him now rather than enchant him as they used to, the girls at the after-parties constantly getting on his nerves by giggling as he walked by, or even worse, trying to talk to him.   
Roman didn’t like picking up girls that knew he was a model, girls that knew his name. He’d rather find some girl already so high on coke she didn’t give a fuck who she fucked, who didn’t demand his name and took the money he offered her without asking any questions.   
Unfortunately, as he’d started doing more and more fashion shows his name had become more and more known, making it harder for him to not only find girls that weren’t familiar with him but ones that would give in to his…. Preferences, as well.   
He glanced at his watch. Twenty more minutes before it was his turn to go out onto the runway. His mother wasn’t here, probably already in the audience, looking for some wealthy guy to fuck in the restroom.   
Roman grabbed his pocketknife that he’d just been playing around with from the table and left the room in great strides. No one stopped him, all too busy making last-minute adjustments to outfits or dealing with a model’s mental breakdown.   
He made his way down the hallway, buzzing with people as well, and sighed as he reached the quiet, safe haven of the men’s restroom.   
  
He leaned over one of the washbasins, curling his fingers around the white porcelain one by one. The mirror reflection stared back at him unashamedly. There was a curiosity in his eyes, and a dark, small hint of lust.   
He slid his hand into his pocket, grabbing hold of the smooth, cold silver. He opened the knife, the blade giving off a dull shining. He made two small incisions on his forefinger and his middle finger, feeling warm drops starting to slide down, a small stream of red. He lifted his hand to his mouth, sliding his fingers around his mouth, sucking them in.   
His eyes, he saw, darkened as the blood touched his tongue, salty but slightly sweet at the same time, the rich taste spreading throughout his mouth as he slid his fingers in and out of his mouth.   
His slacks tightened as he kept sucking, the blood drying slightly on his lips. He turned around, headed into a cubicle and shut the door behind him. He closed his eyes as he leaned against the wall, his other hand sliding down to unbutton his trousers.   
He grasped his dick firmly, slowly pumping his hand up and down, occasionally letting go to touch his balls.   
Roman didn’t think of anything; he just envisioned a sea of red behind his eyelids, starting with a slight trickle until his vision filled up and he was hit with red, hot waves as he spurted his release with a single groan.    
As he opened his eyes, he felt as if the void in him came bubbling up to the surface. It wasn’t enough. The blood, the orgasm. It wasn’t good enough, didn’t fill him to the brink, and didn’t satisfy his deep, unknown craving.   
Roman sighed as he exited the cubicle, sliding the still bloody knife back into his trousers. The watch on his wrist kept ticking relentlessly. Ten more minutes. Just enough time to make the final alterations to his outfit, enough time to be scolded for leaving in the middle of preparations.  
And then, the show had to go on. 

* * *

Being a fashion photographer was not exactly what Peter had envisioned when he’d gotten his very first camera from Lynda. He was seven years old when she’d brought it home with her, and he could still feel that feeling of utter excitement all throughout his body when she’d lifted the camera from her bag, her eyes twinkling as she handed it to him as if it were the most precious thing in the whole world.   
It was an old one that took grainy, blurry pictures that she’d found at a yard sale somewhere. It was the kind of camera most kids wouldn’t have glanced at twice, wondering what to do with an old thing like that, but Peter loved it. He’d take shitty photographs around the place they happened to live at the time, and imagined all the places on the planet he’d go to, to capture the breathtaking beauty each and every place possessed. He’d wanted to take photos of wildlife in Africa, monks in Thailand, the carnival in Brazil, the gondolas on the Venice waters.   
Instead, he’d ended up in a too-hot, secluded room filled with people who were convinced they were the most interesting, important people on the planet just because they were invited to have this job interview. They didn’t even have the fucking job yet, but Peter had to admit, getting an interview at one of the most prestigious magazines in the country probably was quite an impressive feat in itself.   
Peter had been tight for money; literally living on bread and peanut butter for a month when Lynda had come to the small trailer he was now living in with a newspaper clipping in her bag. It had said there was a photographer needed for a large fashion show in New York. Lynda had looked at him with hopeful eyes, and Peter had looked at the salary mentioned in the vacancy ad with bulging ones.   
He’d been sitting on this chair for about one and a half hours now, fidgeting with his collar as he waited. He never actually wore a shirt, let alone a tie, and it felt like a cage around him. Peter hated cages.   
  
“Peter… Ru- rumancek?” The man calling his name sounded slightly uncertain, as well as surprised.   
_Probably didn’t think a gypsy would be invited to a fancy job interview._  
Peter got up, already opening his mouth to say something when the man abruptly turned around, making a ‘follow me’-gesture with his hand. Peter raised an eyebrow, but followed him anyway.   
He was led into a large office, furnished in a modern style, mostly black and white. One side of the office existed out of one large window, offering a panorama view of the city.   
Behind the desk sat a blonde woman, wearing a white blouse and red lipstick, her hair up in a ponytail. She looked up at him and smiled, no reserve or shock to be seen in her expression as she said: “You must be Peter Rumancek. Sorry for keeping you waiting for so long, we just have a lot of applicants for this job.”   
Peter felt a little bit of his anxiety disappear. The woman had a kind face, a little chubby almost, that made her seem soft and harmless.   
She got up and extended her hand. He grabbed it. She was taller than he would’ve thought.   
“My name is Letha Godfrey, I’m arranging this entire fashion show in New York.”   
“Must be a very tiring job,” he said, sitting down across from her at the desk.   
She laughed. “Yeah, it is. My cousin is actually one of the models in the show though, and my aunt’s always had quite a lot of influence in the fashion and modeling world, so it’s a fun job as well.”   
Peter didn’t really know how to reply to that. To be honest, he didn’t really give a fuck about fashion. He was here because he needed a paying job.     
“So, Peter,” Letha began, casually calling him by his first name, “tell me what you like about photography.”   
Peter was stunned into silence for a while. This wasn’t exactly a question he’d expected.  
“Well,” he started, trying to stretch out the conversation while his mind worked furiously to put his love for photography into words, “I guess… It’s a way to present the world the way you want it. Things that most people wouldn’t look at twice, I like taking pictures of those. Things that are usually, by our standards, are considered ugly. I like taking photos of them the way I see them, because I can show the world that what they might think is ugly, or different, or weird is actually… Good. Pretty. I suppose what I’m trying to say through photography is that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”   
He fell silent, unsure what she might think of his answer. He’d probably said the wrong thing. They weren’t talking about taking pictures of ugly things for this job, but the complete opposite. Fuck. In his comment, Peter had actually just kind of insulted the whole fashion and modeling world.   
“That’s… Wow. That’s very insightful.” Letha seemed to mean what she said, and Peter pushed down the slight flicker of hope he felt in his gut. Let’s not get optimistic now.   
“Can you show the world that you think those models are indeed beautiful?”   
  
Two days later, Peter was in a cab in New York, en route to the big event.  
He was still astonished that he’d been lucky enough to get the job. When Letha had called him to tell him the good news, the first that came out of his mouth was: “But why me?”   
“You are original,” Letha simply had said. “We can use a little more of that in this world.”   
He’d been sent on his way with business class tickets and a map filled with instructions he had to go through before he actually landed in New York.   
Apparently, he’d deduced from the papers, he had to both photograph models on the runway as well as making small portfolios of them, so they could be released in magazines, a sort of ‘get to know you’-model version.   
The cab stopped in front of a large, white building. Peter paid the cab driver and got out, getting his equipment from the trunk.   
The cab drove off and Peter was left standing on the sidewalk, the only one not moving in a mass of people all on their way to somewhere.   
Peter hauled his tripod under his arm, grabbed his camera bag a little tighter and, careful not to hit anyone, made his way into the building.   
  
He looked around a little forlornly. The lobby was incredibly huge, and people seemed to crawl around every inch of it. They were laughing, chattering, some were frowning or looked worried. It was like a beehive in there, and it was up to Peter to find his own place in it.   
His eyes wandered along the walls, decorated with gold, when his eyes fell onto a tall, slender boy, who was leaning against the wall and looking right at him. Peter registered the stranger’s green eyes, an almost challenging look in them, that made a blush creep up his cheeks for a reason he couldn’t explain. A small smirk played along the curve of the boy’s full lips. Then he pushed himself off the wall with one shoulder and disappeared smoothly in the throng of people, leaving Peter dazed and confused.    


	2. Part 2

Since Peter’s arrival at the show, six hours earlier, he’d been working non-stop. He’d been dragged off by a stressed-out woman, constantly switching between talking to him and talking to someone she could apparently hear through her earplug, leaving Peter confused as to when she was addressing him and when she wasn’t.   
He’d been set up in a relatively small studio, all the walls a perfect white. The first model had come in and deliberately ignored Peter trying to introduce himself, telling him to ‘hurry the fuck up, I’ve only got a couple of minutes before it’s my turn on the runway’, and so Peter had decided to not try and talk to any of the models, just photograph them as quickly as he could and ushering the next one in.   
By this point all the models were a blur of pretty faces, each one as bland as the next.   
Currently Peter had a couple minutes to look at the tiny screen of his camera to check his photos of the previous model until the next one would come in. He sighed deeply and cracked his back, an ache spreading throughout his body from having to bend over and crouch down in impossible positions to get the right angle.   
  
“Tough day?”   
Peter jumped, letting out a (very manly, of course) gasp at the sudden sound behind him, turning around quickly and looking in the face of the boy he’d seen earlier in the lobby, dressed in a white shirt that hugged his torso tightly and a pair of chino pants.   
“Oh, and a bad conscience too?”   
The boy smirked, Peter just stared. Of course, all models were good-looking, but this one had an almost angelic beauty to him. He was pretty, almost like a girl, but Peter’s subconscious also noted the long, straight lines and angles of his body that definitely weren’t like a woman’s. The boy also had insanely full, sensual lips, and Peter didn’t seem to be able to tear his eyes away from them.  
He was pulled out of his thoughts by the other’s voice, and guiltily Peter looked up at him. “My name is Roman,” the boy said, not giving any hint that he’d caught Peter staring.     
“Peter,” he replied, turning away from Roman’s mesmerizing gaze and willing the blush in his cheeks to go down instantly as he started fumbling around with the lights. It didn’t exactly work.   
  
“So, Peter,” Roman said, casually following him, “where do you want me?”   
_Preferably on your knees in front of me.  
_ “Uhm,” Peter stammered, trying to shake that ( _very, very pleasing_ ) image from his mind. “Could you… Go over there, lean against the wall?”   
Roman did as he said, Peter adjusting the lights around him and setting up his tripod and camera near Roman.   
He looked through the lens, but wasn’t completely satisfied.   
“Okay, could you lift your hips off the wall, just lean against it with your shoulders?” Roman rolled his hips forward in a way that did not, absolutely did not make Peter wish he were bent over in front of Roman. Nope. Not thinking about that at all.   
“Like that?” Roman looked straight at him through the camera lens, green eyes flickering under his lashes.   
“Almost. Wait, hold on.” Peter was pretty sure he wasn’t actually supposed to be touching the models. But he’d already seen the way the picture was supposed to look like in his head, and for it to work Roman’s pose needed to be adjusted just the slightest bit. So Peter walked over to him, mostly staring at the floor, and tentatively put his hands on Roman’s hips, touching him with just his fingertips. He turned Roman’s hips towards the camera, while making sure his shoulders were still against the wall.   
Out of a reflex, to see if he wasn’t hurting his model, he looked up and was confronted with Roman’s teasing expression.   
Peter’s throat felt constricted and he coughed a little awkwardly. “Sorry, just… Need to make sure I get the right angle.”   
One side of Roman’s mouth curved up. “Oh, yes, of course you do. Getting the right… _Angle_ is very important.”   
Peter could feel his face heating up once again (Jesus Christ, he needed to stop looking like some blushing virgin right the fuck now) and almost tripped over his own feet in his hurry to get back behind his tripod, his safe haven, away from Roman’s body heat and addictive scent.   
  
Peter started clicking away, occasionally zooming in. His throat went dry when he saw the hard nub of Roman’s nipple through the shirt, and wow, okay, this really wasn’t the time for his pants to go tight.   
“Okay, could you sit down? Leave one knee up and put your arm over it. Good, now look back here?” Roman stared straight into the lens as Peter clicked away, the heat in his gut intensifying.   
“Lean your head back, close your eyes?” Roman let his head fall back against the wall, Peter sighing with relief to have a few moments without that gaze piercing into his own.   
He zoomed in on Roman’s face, the exact moment Roman’s lips opened and his tongue darted out to wet them.   
Jesus Christ. Peter’s hard-on was straining against his jeans now, and he was pretty sure Roman would be able to see. But when he zoomed in, photographing the arm with the shiny watch draped over his knee he saw the hard, long line of Roman’s own erection.   
He looked back up at Roman’s face through the camera lens, this time prepared for the green eyes.   
“Peter.” Roman’s voice had gone an octave lower, his voice raspy. “Come here.”   
Peter stumbled from behind the camera, his erection rubbing painfully against the cloth of his boxers.   
Roman’s long fingers pulled at the denim of his jeans, pulling Peter down onto his lap. Peter rolled his hips into Roman’s, desperate for any kind of friction right now. Roman groaned, then laughed breathily as he, in an almost gentle gesture, tucked a strand of Peter’s hair behind his ear.   
Then he buried his hand in Peter’s hair and pulled him down, kissing him aggressively with tongue and teeth rather than finesse.   
Peter grabbed the front of Roman’s shirt, pulling it clumsily. With a smacking sound Roman detached his mouth from Peter’s, a small string of saliva still connecting them. He pulled his own shirt up over his head and threw it in a corner carelessly, grabbing Peter’s face with both hands and furiously kissing him again. They were probably gonna get hell for getting those clothes dirty, Peter thought absentmindedly, heat coiling in his groin as Roman languidly massaged Peter’s tongue with his own.   
  
Suddenly Peter was being flipped over, Roman grabbing his wrists and pinning them up over Peter’s head. Peter’s legs instantly fell open to accommodate Roman, grinding their hips together. Roman pressed his forehead against Peter’s. There was almost no more green to be seen in his eyes, just a tiny little circle around the black of his pupil. He delivered a particular hard thrust against Peter’s pelvis, and the moans they both released echoed loudly around the room.   
Roman got up onto his elbows and pulled off Peter’s shirt, shifting lower and kissing around Peter’s bellybutton. Peter dropped his head on the floor, breathing out a small ‘fuck’. He felt Roman grin more than he actually saw it, then there was the wet slide of Roman’s tongue towards his belt buckle.    
Peter raised himself up on his elbows, watching Roman unbuckle him with skilled fingers. Roman tapped his hips, and as Peter lifted them up obediently he slid both Peter’s jeans and his boxers down.   
“Holy shit, are you… _Ohhh_ ,” Peter moaned as Roman didn’t waste any time, just positioned Peter’s dick at his lips and sucked on the tip. There were soft slurping sounds as Roman sank his mouth lower, his lips hot and tight like a vice around Peter’s dick. Jesus Christ, Roman looked perfect with his mouth stretched out around him, a faint blush on his cheeks. Roman looked up from beneath his lashes, and Peter couldn’t help but thrust up a little bit.   
“Jesus Christ, you look like a little whore right now,” Peter sighed, forcing Roman to bob up and down by putting one hand in his hair. Roman moaned around his cock.   
“You like being called a whore? Huh? You wanna be my little slut?” Roman sucked with vigor, unbuttoning his own pants and sliding them town, grasping his own dick tightly. Peter thrust up into his face again, hitting the back of Roman’s throat with the tip of his dick. Roman only gagged a little bit, but didn’t come up an inch.    
“ _Fuck_ , stop, I’m close,” Peter gasped, pulling Roman up by his hair.   
  
“I’ve never fucked a guy before.” Roman’s voice was hoarse from sucking Peter’s dick, and yet he managed to sound somewhat innocent.   
“But… I want you to fuck me, Peter. I wanna know what it feels like.” Peter grabbed the base of his dick and squeezed tightly. Fuck.   
“Get on your hands and knees,” Peter ordered, Roman immediately complying. God, he was pretty like this, pressed up on his elbows, ass in the air, head leaning into his hands.   
“I’m just gonna loosen you up a bit, okay? I don’t wanna hurt you,” Peter said, pressing a soft kiss against Roman’s back.   
Peter put his hands on Roman’s ass, kneading the flesh between his fingers so red prints appeared. He spread the cheeks apart, lowering himself and licking a long stripe up Roman’s crack. The effect was instantaneous. Roman released a sound that was between a whine and a moan, and pressed himself back against Peter’s face.   
Peter got Roman as wet as he could, licking around his entrance and occasionally pressing his tongue in. At the same time he pumped his dick, spreading the precome over the tip as a poor substitute for lube.   
Roman was now letting out curses and whines constantly, trying to fuck himself on Peter’s tongue, begging him.  
“Peter, goddammit, just fuck me right now.”  
“No one ever teach you how to ask nicely?” Peter grinned, playfully slapping Roman’s ass. Roman just grunted out a soft ‘fuck, _please_ ’.   
Peter raised himself up on his knees, positioning the tip of his dick against Roman’s entrance, slowly pushing in.   
“I can’t promise you that this isn’t going to hurt a little bit,” he forced out, trying to keep himself from shoving his cock right into the tight heat of Roman’s ass.   
“Keep going,” was the only response from Roman. After a minute or two Peter was fully sheathed inside Roman.   
“You okay?”   
“Fuck,” Roman sighed. “I feel so fucking _full_.”   
Peter squeezed his eyes shut. “Listen, I don’t want to be an asshole, but I think I need to move. Like now.”   
Roman just nodded. Peter slowly pulled out and pushed back in, with every thrust increasing his tempo. He reached around Roman’s body, grabbing his dick and pumping it back to full hardness.   
“ _Ahhh fuuuck_ , do that same thing again,” Roman suddenly moaned, Peter thrusting again at the same angle.   
“ _Holy fuck_ what is that oh Peter fuck harder yes,” Roman just babbled, meeting Peter on every thrust now. _Found the prostate.  
  
_ Peter grinned and started pounding into Roman harder, his balls slapping against Roman’s ass. Roman’s precome was leaking on his hand.   
Roman suddenly slapped Peter’s hand from his dick, replacing it with his own. “Pull my hair,” he commanded, bending his back. Peter grabbed a hand of Roman’s locks, forcing his head backwards. Roman spread his legs as wide as he could, furiously jerking himself off now with one hand and biting into his other arm. Peter saw blood on Roman’s arm, wanted to stop and ask him if he was alright, but Roman just licked the wound, sucked the blood from it and made low moaning noises in his throat, as if he was enjoying the taste.   
“Roman, Roman I’m gonna come,” Peter groaned, the force of his thrusts forcing Roman’s entire body back and forth.   
“Do it, Peter. Come inside me.” The sound of Roman’s high, breathy voice combined with the slick sounds of Roman pulling his own dick forced Peter over the edge. His vision went wide around the edges, fucking through his orgasm.   
When he opened his eyes Roman’s arm was moving at the speed of light, his entire body tensing up and then suddenly all his muscles relaxed as his semen splattered against the floor, Roman letting out a long luxurious moan.   
Peter pulled out and dropped himself onto the floor, feeling light and boneless.   
Roman got up, redressing and fixing his hair with his hands.   
“Time for your next model, Mr. Rumancek,” Roman winked, and then left the room without glancing back.   
Peter had never told Roman his last name. He scrambled back up from the floor to grab his clothes, to find a small piece of paper in his pocket. In a neat handwriting it said _Roman Godfrey_ , followed by a telephone number.   
Godfrey. Peter looked down at the paper, grinning. Perhaps his luck at the job interview didn’t have that much to do with luck at all.  


End file.
